When the Sirens started singing, Odysseus ordered his men to tie him to the mast of the ship. He couldn’t be taken in; he had a bigger mission; he had to get home to Ithaca, and Penelope, and Telemachus, and everyone who loved and needed him. The Sirens could charm unsuspecting sailors into dashing themselves into rocks in an attempt to get at the beautiful music, which seemed to enter their veins and become a part of them, like liquid passion. Odysseus begged to be released, tried to tear himself free, but his crew only made the ropes tighter, until they had past, and the danger was gone, and he was able to remember. . .

I am tied to the mast. My insides are writhing; the haunting chorus of music is calling. Trapped in this white room, I clench my hands into fists, feeling the cold sweat break out on my forehead. I wonder what has happened to Ian, where he is, if they have tied him to the mast as well. Is he okay? In the next second I don’t even care. I go back and forth between feeling normal and feeling ravenous, insane, like I would kill Ian myself if I knew he had something. Nothing is real but this moment, and this music, and this horrible pain, unlike anything I have ever felt.

What is the point of being strong? What is the point of fighting? Give in, give in, the music sings to me. Give in, and this will all end. But I can’t tear myself free. In a moment of clarity, of courage, I ordered them to tie me to the mast. Because we all knew this would happen next.

“Ian!” I call, but I know I am not really calling for him. I am calling for what he gave me, and the world he showed me. In the end, that was the extent of us.

My fingernails make half-moon shapes in my palm, little up and down U’s, the way kids always draw water. I feel myself screaming, but I don’t even hear that, because all I hear is the music, all I hear is the sound of my voice, begging them to cut me free, telling them that this was a mistake. They do not listen; they remember my mission even though I cannot.